Someone Like You
by VampirePam
Summary: <html><head></head>An examination of Boyd and Raylan's evolving, romantic relationship through 5 turning points, starting when they were teenagers and ending in an alternate version of the Season 1 finale.  Note: This is a collection of my previous Justified stories.</html>
1. Born and Raised in a Summer Haze

"_You know how the time flies,_

_Only yesterday was the time of our lives._

_We were born and raised in a summer haze,_

_Bound by the surprise of our glory days."_

Boyd hurtled toward the water, barely taking the time to strip off his clothes - shirt first, then jeans and boxers - before jumping wildly off the dock into the cool water of the lake. The muffled splash he heard beside him meant that Raylan had presumably done the same, all at considerable speed considering Boyd had gained a good minute on him by the time they had reached the lake. Breaking the surface with a splash, Boyd confirmed his theory with a quick glance toward the shore, where he saw next to his own a heap of Raylan's clothes, including the jacket his momma insisted he wear to school despite the heat. That week had reached a record-breaking high of 93 degrees - hot for May even by Harlan standards - so when Raylan had suggested a Friday night spent drinking whiskey and skinny-dipping at the lake, Boyd had eagerly agreed.

Raylan's head popped up a few feet from his own, and he grinned wildly at Boyd, running his fingers through his wet hair - getting much too long, his momma always said - and slicking it back from his face. Boyd grinned back and took off straight for the deep water under the willow trees where he and Raylan always used to dive as kids, hoping for buried treasure and lucky if they found spare change. Raylan followed him using the long, powerful strokes that came with his height, and they soon reached what Boyd had always thought of as the most beautiful part of the lake.

His head spinning a little from the potent combination of whiskey, cool water, and starlight, Boyd swam in small circles around Raylan, humming a little to himself and thinking that, while he would obviously rather have been sharing such a romantic scene with a girl, Raylan wasn't a bad second choice.

"Talking of girls," Raylan said, startling Boyd out of his reverie.

"Were we?" asked Boyd confusedly.

"Well you were," Raylan replied, smirking, "You kept muttering, 'Linda, dance with me, Linda!' and waltzing around in the water."

"I was not," maintained Boyd, afraid he had been doing something embarrassingly close to that.

"Well, maybe not," Raylan admitted, "But you might as well have been. What, my company isn't enough for you? I'm hurt, Boyd, I really am," he finished, placing a hand over his heart to feign dejection.

"You're telling me you wouldn't rather be here making time with some stacked cheerleader screaming, 'No, Raylan, don't splash me, you'll mess up my hair?'" Boyd asked pointedly.

"I seem to recall you having similar reactions to some of my previous attempts at roughhousing, Boyd" Raylan remarked wryly, "Why would I need a cheerleader?"

This earned him a splash from Boyd, and Raylan retreated before he could be hit a second time, asking laughingly as he went, "So why aren't you here with Linda then? You can't tell me she's the type to say no to anybody, even you."

Boyd pondered this for a moment - why hadn't he asked Linda to come with him to the lake? Raylan was quite right; she wouldn't have said no. And it wasn't as if he didn't see enough of Raylan between school and the mine. He certainly wouldn't have begrudged Boyd a chance to get laid.

"No sport in it," he bluffed, "Like shooting fish in a barrel. Not to mention half the senior class has shot fish in that particular barrel."

"Oh now who's the liar, Boyd?" Raylan replied, "You were too chicken to ask out a girl, so you got stuck spending your Friday night with me instead."

"All right, Raylan, let's say I was 'too chicken'?" Boyd shot back, "What's your big excuse for your lack of feminine companionship this sultry May evening? I seem to recall you being the one asking me to come along."

Raylan merely shrugged, replying, "Does every red-blooded American male have to seek out the company of a woman to enjoy himself? If I had really wanted to spend tonight with a girl, I would be, simple as that."

"I know I'm a good conversationalist, Raylan, but I'm not better than sex," Boyd deadpanned, causing Raylan to chuckle, "I'm going to call bullshit on that one. Do you know the real reason you don't have a date tonight?"

"No, Boyd, I am completely in the dark. Why don't you enlighten me?" Raylan was looking bemused as he crossed his arms over his bare chest.

"Well, since you ask, Raylan," Boyd began, paddling around the lake as grandly as if he were a prosecutor addressing a jury, "the way I figure it is this: I've been studying your track record quite closely, and my results reveal that you usually manage to get at least one date with a girl before she realizes you're "not her type." At the end of each of these I'm sure otherwise pleasant evenings, you are given a chance by the laws of courtship etiquette to make her world stop on its axis. Your suspicious lack of repeat performances proves to me that you haven't managed it once. My conclusion, with a very small margin of error, I might add, figures thus: your kissing technique is so sub-par that it simply cannot be made up for by your other, finer qualities."

With his pontificating concluded, Boyd hastened his speed around the lake - still grinning like Lucifer - just in case Raylan should decide to retaliate in a physical manner.

"Oh, really? You've figured all this out, have you?" responded Raylan, eyes narrowed and shoulders squared as if taking on a challenger.

"Oh yes. I'm afraid, you can't argue with science, Raylan," Boyd stated quite calmly, although his expression bore hints of apprehension.

It was then that Raylan lunged suddenly and powerfully toward him, and Boyd responded by emitting an appropriately manly screech and began swimming toward the center of the lake, a burst of hysterical laughter bubbling up in his chest.

"Oh no, you don't," Raylan said as he caught up to Boyd, grabbing him by the shoulders and spinning him around so they were face to face. He easily pinned Boyd's arms behind his back and, though Boyd struggled exceedingly - splashing them both thoroughly with water in the process - he could not escape Raylan's grasp.

"Take it back and I'll let you go," Raylan promised glibly, with the tables thoroughly turned. "Don't take it back, and I'll be forced to enact some very serious measures indeed." This time it was Raylan who was grinning like the devil and Boyd who was glaring back at him.

Mustering up as much dignity as he could considering he was wet, naked, and completely at the mercy of his friend, Boyd looked Raylan straight in the eye and asked, "And what serious measures would these be, Raylan Givens?"

Raylan's grin took on a slightly sinister quality as he raised his eyebrows, leaned forward, and whispered, "You're about thirty seconds from finding out unless you take it back. Right. Now."

Boyd had only been kidding about the kissing thing, but he wasn't about to back down from a challenge. "Do your worst," he declared defiantly.

Raylan kept smiling that infernal grin as he said, "Oh my worst is the last thing I have in store for you, Boyd Crowder. Keep in mind, you asked for it.". And with that he closed the space between them in a flash and kissed Boyd full on the mouth.

Boyd's instinctual reaction was to pull away and ask Raylan just what the hell he thought he was doing, but as Raylan still had him effectively immobilized, Boyd realized any attempts at escape would be futile. As he resigned himself to his current situation, Boyd was forced to admit that he had indeed been very wrong before: Raylan was an excellent kisser.

Boyd was fully prepared to own up to his mistake just as soon as Raylan released him, but as the seconds wore on, Raylan made it clear he had no intention of doing any such thing. If anything, he started kissing Boyd even harder, his tongue repeatedly darting in just long enough to glance tantalizingly over Boyd's, then out again just as quickly. As seconds turned into minutes, Boyd began to feel a bit light-headed again, and when his knees buckled slightly beneath him, Raylan released his arms and moved his own hands down to Boyd's waist for support. To his own surprise, Boyd used his newly freed hands not to gain his freedom, but rather to get a better grip on Raylan, twisting them in the tangled locks at the back of his friend's head and pulling him in even closer.

Even amid all this commotion, Raylan never once took his focus from the kiss, pausing only every now and again to find a better angle of attack. Boyd was now matching Raylan's passion stroke for stroke, and as he inched his leg up behind Raylan's in an attempt to be touching even more of him, he felt a very familiar stirring in his groin. He was about to pull back in embarrassment, to apologize and blame it on the whiskey and promise to never talk about it again when he realized that Raylan was as hard as he was.

Then it was Raylan who stopped the kiss and withdrew, although his face remained only a few inches from Boyd's. "Last chance," he growled huskily, in a voice so intense that Boyd would have felt scared if he wasn't preoccupied being insanely turned on.

A little voice in the back of his head penetrated the fog and reminded him that Raylan had actually said something, and was perhaps waiting for a reply, and he managed a distracted, "What?", promising himself he would listen to the words this time.

Raylan huffed a breath in and out a few times, then moved his hands up to frame the sides of Boyd's face and spoke very deliberately, "Boyd, you have exactly ten seconds to tell me to stop before I fuck you so hard you won't be able to walk tomorrow."

Operating entirely on instinct at this point, Boyd responded by wrapping his fingers around Raylan's cock, eliciting a groan from the other man, who dug his fingernails into Boyd's back. Taking this as a yes, Raylan deftly spun Boyd around, and wrapped one arm tightly around his waist, half-kissing, half-biting the side of his neck, while Boyd let his head loll back and rest on Raylan's shoulder. He yanked Raylan's head back and kissed him hungrily, all the while feeling Raylan's erection pressing against him from behind.

Not breaking the kiss, Raylan reached down and gently ran his little finger around the rim of Boyd's asshole, causing him to pull away and cry out in surprise. "Try to relax," murmured Raylan, "It'll be easier that way.

Boyd nodded slowly and leaned back against Raylan once more, hand clutching the side of his neck, as Raylan carefully inserted one of his fingers. This time he was prepared for the shock, but a sudden and unexpected jolt of sensation hit him out of nowhere, and he inhaled sharply. As Raylan inserted two more fingers and spread him even further apart, he found himself whispering, "Yes, yes" over and over again, with increasing volume and urgency.

By the time Raylan murmured, "Ready?" his voice rough with exertion and desire, Boyd was close to screaming out from need, and, after quickly nodding his assent, he let go completely as Raylan slipped into him, the water acting as a natural lubricant. Raylan began to move his cock in and out, slowly at first, and then with increasing speed as Boyd clung to him desperately, nerve endings he didn't know he possessed sending continuous waves of pleasure and pain throughout his body. They went on like that for what seemed like forever, their bodies moving in perfect union back and forth, hurtling toward the crest of a wave of sensation. When Raylan finally came inside of him, Boyd immediately followed, letting go of the tension that had been building almost unbearably inside of him.

Afterwards, still trying to catch his breath, Boyd rested his head in the crook of Raylan's neck and interlaced the fingers of his right hand with the one Raylan still had wrapped around his waist. In return, Raylan smoothed Boyd's hair, damp with lake water and sweat, away from his forehead and gently placed his cheek there. Boyd could have stayed like that for the rest of the night, the two of them tangled up in each other, inhaling and exhaling in tandem, basking in the afterglow and the rugged beauty of the scene surrounding them.

Eventually, Boyd felt Raylan slide out from behind him, running his hand lazily across Boyd's lower back as he went. "We should get some rest," he mumbled sleepily, and motioned towards the shore where they had deposited their clothes. Boyd murmured in agreement, and they both plunged once more into the water, swimming side by side until they had reached the shallows and collapsed exhausted onto the bank. Boyd would have been content to remain there, but Raylan was already up, grabbing their clothes and heading for the woods, smiling goofily over his shoulder at Boyd as he did so. He found himself grinning back as he loped after Raylan, grabbing his hand as he caught up to run beside him.

Raylan tumbled down on the first empty patch of ground they saw that was deep enough into the woods to make discovery unlikely and, eyes flashing impishly, pulled Boyd swiftly down next to him. Boyd laughed and snuggled down next to Raylan, looping an arm lightly around his waist and resting his head on his chest. Raylan responded by grabbing his jacket and draping it over both of them, putting his arm around Boyd and drawing him in even closer.

"Should we talk about this?" Boyd asked hesitantly after a few minutes, not wanting to ruin the perfection of the moment or dispel the glow that was still surrounding them.

"Do you want to talk about this?" asked Raylan, not stirring an inch from his position.

"Not particularly," admitted Boyd, a little scared to look at Raylan.

"Good, me neither," replied Raylan, to Boyd's great relief, and he nestled in once more against him.

They lay there like that for awhile, until the silence was broken once more, this time by Raylan: "Do you think...tonight was a mistake?"

This time Boyd did move his head, tilting it upwards to look into Raylan's eyes, searching for some clue as to which answer he wanted to hear. Not finding any help there, he replied simply, "No," before getting up the courage to ask in turn, "Do you?"

Raylan sighed and said, "Nope, can't say I do. It's hard for me to regret something that makes me feel this good."

Boyd smiled and moved to kiss him lightly on the lips before settling back down for the final time. He was still a bit confused as to how precisely they'd gotten here and what it all meant, but as Raylan said, he was feeling too good to question anything. He closed his eyes and let out a contented sigh, and, as he settled in for the night, he felt Raylan do the same. Boyd didn't know what problems would come with the sunrise, but, falling asleep next to Raylan under the stars, he didn't care; tonight things were perfect, and for now, that was more than enough.


	2. Regrets and Mistakes, Memories Made

_Nothing compares_

_No worries or cares_

_Regrets and mistakes, they're memories made._

_Who would have known h__ow bittersweet this would taste?_

* * *

><p>Boyd awoke with a start, and it took a moment for him to separate the pounding on the door from the pelting of rain on the roof. Disentangling himself from the ratty afghan his mother had made so many years ago, he rose and walked hesitantly toward the door. His cautious peer through the peephole had him ripping the door open to reveal Raylan, leaning on the door frame and breathing raggedly as if he'd run there.<p>

"Raylan, what -" was all Boyd got out before Raylan was kissing him, his hands on the side of Boyd's face, mouth desperate and searching, body pressing him into the open door. Boyd fervently returned the kiss, but pulled back reluctantly after a few minutes, pressing his forehead against Raylan's.

"Come upstairs," he whispered roughly with what little breath he had left, his hand brushing lightly, casually over Raylan's cheekbone.

Raylan paused for a moment, leaning ever so slightly into Boyd's touch, then threw himself violently backwards and shook his head. "I can't. I'm leaving. Tonight."

"What do you mean 'leaving'?" Boyd asked, a heavy weight forming in his stomach as he quietly closed the front door and stepped out onto the porch to stand toe to toe with Raylan. "What happened?"

"My Momma..." Raylan's voice trailed off and he avoided Boyd's glance, but his trembling hands and red-rimmed eyes made it easy to fill in the blanks.

Boyd quietly took Raylan's hand in his and squeezed it. "I'm sorry," he said softly, and meant it. He knew what it was like to lose a mother.

They stood like that for a few moments, until Raylan released Boyd's hand and turned to look off into the distance, the expression on his face unreadable except for the undercurrent of pain running beneath it. He finally spoke, voice shaking only slightly, "It's been a long time coming. I promised her when she got sick that I'd stay until the end, but with that debt paid, I've got nothing keeping me here. Arlo's too broken up to give her a proper funeral, selfish son-of-a-bitch that he is. So I'm leaving tonight - no point in prolonging things that don't need to be prolonged."

"You're upset, Raylan - no use in doing something you'll regret just because you're feeling lost." Boyd tried to keep the fear out of his voice as he spoke.

"You think I'd regret leaving Harlan?" Raylan asked angrily, beginning to pace the porch like a caged animal. "I told myself first chance I got I'd be out the front door and across the state line for good. And here I am, 19 years old, mining coal, killing my lungs with black dust and my liver with whiskey. If I don't leave now, I never will."

"And do what, Raylan?" Boyd snapped, his temper cutting through his concern. "What are your employable skills? Mining coal? Talking like a smart ass? Looking good in a silly hat? What's a son of Harlan like you equipped to do in the big, wide world?"

Raylan hesitated before responding, "I'm joining the Marshall Service, Boyd. I sent in an application a few months back, and they accepted me last week. I'd been weighing what to do when," Raylan paused a little here, pushing down the lump forming in his throat, and finished quietly, "when Mama took a turn for the worse. It seemed like the universe was telling me something, and it would have been stupid not to listen."

Boyd felt like he'd been socked in the gut, but made his face carefully blank when he said, "Universe, huh? I always was kind of convinced she had it out for me. So this right here, this is you saying goodbye?"

Raylan's face softened, replying after a moment, "Doesn't have to be. You could join up. Marshall Service is always looking for good men."

Boyd laughed out loud at that, a sharp, bitter sound devoid of any pleasure, and said, "Oh wouldn't that be a pretty picture, me, a US Marshall? Sure, I could go gallivanting all over the country, then come riding back into Harlan on my white horse; then I could wave my shiny silver badge in my Daddy's face, show him how grateful I am to him for raising me! That'd be just swell, Raylan, where do I sign?"

Now it was Raylan losing his temper as he yelled, "So this is it, then, Boyd? This is all you ever want for yourself? What, mining coal until you're in position to take over your Daddy's drug empire, distributing poison to the people of Harlan for the rest of your days?"

"At least, I know who I am, Raylan!" Boyd was now screaming as well, "I never had an delusions that I would be doing anything other than what my family has been doing for a hundred years - digging coal and dealing drugs. You're the one with the big, shiny dreams, too big for this shithole of a town, too grand for the yokels of Harlan. Much too good for the likes of me."

"Bullshit, Boyd. You're staying here because you're afraid of doing anything else, of trying for something more and failing! And if I thought I was too good for you, why am I asking you to come with me?" Raylan shouted angrily back at him.

The heated exchange between them abated as they caught their breath, and it was Raylan who once again picked up the conversation, this time cajoling rather than yelling,

"This is a one-time offer, Boyd, and it's still on the table; I want you to come with me, tonight - throw some clothes in a suitcase, jump in the passenger seat of my Chevy, and go. You don't even have to join the Marshalls if you don't want to; just come with me. We could make something together...something good," Raylan finished, looking Boyd straight in the eyes, his expression having morphed from sad and angry to hopeful and nervous.

Boyd backed up quietly to sit on the front porch swing, rocking back and forth a few times and pondering the weight of what Raylan had just offered him: a life, with him, outside Harlan. His gut instinct was to kiss Raylan hard on the mouth, throw together the first few shirts he could find, and drive off into the sunset with the only person in his life who'd ever wanted anything more for him. The only person who'd ever believed, no - expected, him to be something more than a small-time crook. But he knew that couldn't happen.

"It's a mirage, Raylan," he said softly after awhile, not daring to look at the other man. "This future you're seeing for us? It's just a pretty picture shimmering on the horizon that will vanish into sand when we get close. It's not real, can never be real. Even if we get out of Kentucky, you think people are going to be okay with us being together? You think my Daddy wouldn't kill us both when he found out?"

Now it was Raylan's turn to ponder in silence. At last he said, "So I guess that's it then - this is a goodbye after all. Goodbye, Boyd.". He turned and strode quickly off the porch before Boyd could apologize, or explain further, or even just kiss him one last time. Raylan paused briefly at the door to his Chevy, and turned to address him: "Your Daddy, what people think? They're just excuses. Good excuses, maybe, but they're still just chicken-shit cover stories for the fact that you're terrified to leave this prison you've built for yourself. And some day down the road, when you're looking out the window and wondering where your life went, you'll regret being too afraid to stop me leaving tonight. And that's all on you." He opened the car door, got in, and started it up, pausing to add, "Good luck though, Boyd. I mean it," before tearing off into the night.

And before Raylan was even out of sight, Boyd knew he was right - he already regretted letting him leave. He still didn't know how they could have made things work, but Raylan had a way of talking that made it seem like anything was possible.

Boyd returned to the living room, shutting the front door quietly so as not to wake Boman or his Daddy - although truth be told they'd imbibed enough whiskey that night not to be woken by a freight train running through the house. He shuffled over to the couch and curled up underneath the ratty afghan once more. Somehow the room seemed twice as small as it had before his talk with Raylan; the shabbyness which was once homey now seemed rundown and claustrophobic. And as he turned on the TV on low to fill the silence of the little room, Boyd was struck with the crushing realization that he'd loved Raylan...and that now he was gone, probably forever. And he cried over that, really cried, for the first time in many years and the last time for many to come.


	3. Sometimes It Lasts, Sometimes It Hurts

_Don't forget me, I beg_

_I remember you said, _

_"Sometimes it lasts in love_

_But sometimes it hurts instead."_

* * *

><p>If pressed, Boyd would have admitted that 34 Maple Drive - a modest, suburban house with a small flower garden at the front - was in no way threatening, yet simply staring at its facade caused him to experience a level of fear he had felt before only in times of seemingly imminent death. He reasoned with himself that this was silly, that a man who had both built and disarmed bombs should be afraid of a house. Nevertheless, he had been sitting across the street from it in his beat-up Jeep for a good half an hour trying to get up the nerve to knock on the door.<p>

His internal monologue was abruptly interrupted when the door was opened by a tall, 20-something man in a UK sweatshirt; although the average observer would have no reason to react to him, his appearance froze Boyd in place for about 20 seconds before he could remember how to breathe. He had seen Raylan so many times in his head over the past three years that seeing him in the flesh now in such a casual manner was not processing correctly in his brain.

Raylan was leaning against the porch columns, arms crossed, gazing thoughtfully out over the street, until his eyes seemed to rest on something across the way, which Boyd realized with growing horror was him. A little voice in the back of his head screamed, "Run, run!" but his body obviously had different ideas. He felt a bit like he was hovering outside it, merely watching himself get out of the Jeep and walk slowly in Raylan's direction. Raylan, in turn, stared at him in shocked surprise for a solid minute before his face broke into a broad grin, and he started down the porch steps to meet Boyd.

Seeing Raylan smile united the knot in Boyd's stomach, and he broke into a run, colliding with Raylan in a hug that nearly knocked them both into the grass. Instead, Raylan absorbed Boyd's momentum into a spin, and they whirled round a few times, gripping each other tightly. Then the spinning stopped, and they were just standing in Raylan's front yard holding each other, neither saying a thing. Boyd let out a sigh of relief, overwhelmed for the first time by an ineffable feeling of "home."

After a few minutes, he slowly moved his head from Raylan's shoulder to the crook of his neck, then slid it back so his cheek was pressed to Raylan's, his hands resting gently at the base of his neck. He could feel Raylan tense up at the increased intimacy of his position, although his grip around Boyd never loosened. Boyd responded by pushing back from him so they were finally face to face, separated by only a few inches, and waited for him to make the next move.

Raylan stared at him for a little while before murmuring, "Not here, inside," in a hoarse whisper and backing up toward the house, taking Boyd with him. As soon as they were across the porch and inside the screen door, Boyd could hold it in no longer and kissed him. It began as a soft kiss, exploring and tentative, but as Raylan responded in equal measure, the subsequent kisses grew bolder and more frantic. Suddenly Raylan was fumbling with the buttons on Boyd's shirt, while Boyd was trying to yank Raylan's sweatshirt over his head as quickly as possible. Naked from the waist up and radiating heat into the crisp autumnal air filtering in through the screen, they bounced from one solid surface to the next throughout the small house, from screen door to living room wall to kitchen cabinet stocked with cheerful, flower-patterned china.

As Raylan took a break from attacking Boyd's mouth to give some attention to that sensitive spot on the left side of his neck, Boyd took the opportunity to pant out, "Bedroom?" Raylan leaned back up, murmured a quick, "I'll show you," and kissed Boyd on the lips once more, meanwhile leading him to a room in the back of the house. They fell back onto Raylan's bed in a tangled pile of bodies and limbs. Raylan was straddling Boyd and fumbling with his belt when suddenly he muttered, "Fuck, condoms!" and, after uttering another curse at finding the nightstand empty, ran off into the main part of the house.

Boyd took the opportunity the brief intermission gave him to have a quick look around Raylan's bedroom. There were boxes everywhere; Boyd deemed this typical of Raylan and wouldn't have been surprised if they'd occupied those exact positions in the room for months already. His glance swept casually over the plain, little space until it stopped unexpectedly on a small wicker chair in the corner; thrown over it in a familiar, haphazard manner was a little black cocktail dress.

Boyd felt his stomach churn and sink as he got up to examine it, picking up the dress with one finger and dropping it just as quickly. It was with great apprehension that he crossed the room to open a large box labeled, "Clothes" only to find himself faced with argyle sweaters and pencil skirts. He recoiled and pushed the box away violently, backing up until he hit the bedroom wall.

His mind flashed instantaneously to all the small alarm bells he realized now had been going off since he first arrived at the house; the pleasant suburban neighborhood, nicely kept flower garden, and cheerful china set all pointed to a man who was not living alone. The terrible truth hit him in a flash just as Raylan re-entered the room.

"You're married?" Boyd yelled, trying to cover the pain in his voice with anger and hoping Raylan didn't notice.

Raylan looked as if he'd been punched in the gut. After a couple of moments, he started, "Boyd, I -"

"Married?" Boyd continued to yell, for he knew if he let Raylan start explaining, he would make lying about it seem like a perfectly okay thing to do. And it was not okay, not at all. "Where's your ring?"

Raylan looked abashed for a moment, then pulled it out of the front pocket of his jeans. "I took it off when I realized it was you," he said quietly.

"So I'm not the first," Boyd said slowly, putting the pieces together. "No man who's never cheated would part with a wedding ring so quickly. What, Raylan, you tell your wife you're working late, go to some seedy bar in Lexington, pick up a brawny coal miner for a quick fuck?"

Raylan visibly blanched at this, and Boyd could see that his bullet had found its mark.

"So that's what I am, Raylan?" he barreled on, "Just another anonymous fuck?" Boyd knew the hurt was seeping through the anger, but he couldn't help it.

"No!" Raylan interjected forcefully, "You will always be more than that to me." Raylan took a few steps toward Boyd, as if to comfort and convince.

"Don't," Boyd warned, raising his hands and retreating toward the door, "Don't talk like I can have you, like you're mine and I'm yours and we can be happy together. You're married, Raylan, and that means you belong to somebody, to some poor girl who has no clue who she's sleeping next to every night. What did you say, that you loved her and wanted kids and mini-vans and PTA meetings til death do you part? Little does she know she's just your cover story."

Raylan bristled at that, snapping, "Don't talk about Winona like that, like she's some kind of human shield. I do love her; occasionally fulfilling my physical needs with someone else doesn't change that."

"Physical needs?" Boyd laughed bitterly, "Christ, Raylan, you have built yourself a tidy little house of cards here. I'm just glad I won't be there the day it all comes crashing down with the weight of all the lies you've told yourself." With that he spun and left the room in search of his shirt, wanting to get far away from that house as quickly as he could.

Raylan followed, his own temper rising. "What, Boyd, did you expect me to wait for you?" He was yelling now as well, "I asked you to build a life with me, but you said no! You have no right to have expectations of picking up where we left off!"

"No, I suppose I don't," Boyd admitted, suddenly feeling very tired, "But that didn't stop me from wanting to. The second you left that night, I regretted letting you go; typical me, taking the only good thing in my life and throwing it away. I felt so lost afterwards that I enlisted and went all the way to Kuwait just to forget. And I know you didn't ask for it, and I didn't have any right to, but the only thing that kept me sane over there was dreaming about you."

"About me?" Raylan asked, his voice softening considerably, the anger rapidly draining from it.

Boyd just kept talking, feeling a sudden need to tell Raylan the whole, sorry mess. "You know, about the good times we used to have and could maybe have again someday if I made it home. When the whole world's exploding around you, Raylan, and you feel every second like your luck's about to run out, the thought of somebody at home loving you, waiting for you, is too comforting to resist, and whether or not it's real becomes less and less important."

Raylan interjected, "So when your tour ended..."

"I looked you up in the phone book and came to find you," Boyd finished for him. "I'd already gone to three other Raylan Givenses in Lexington by the time I got here. I didn't even know if I had the nerve to knock on the door, but I had to see you. And when you saw me sitting there, before I knew it, I was out of the car and running, because I realized in that moment that I would give anything in this whole, crazy world to hold you again." Boyd didn't look at Raylan as he finished, but instead headed for the door, overcome once again by a need to be far, far away.

Raylan crossed the room in two long strides and took his hand. This time Boyd didn't pull away, but looked up at him tentatively.

"Boyd, I'm so, so sorry," he began, "I gave you false hope for the kind of future I can't give you, and I can see now that was cruel. if things were different..." he trailed off.

"But they aren't and we can't." Boyd finished quietly. "You're married, and I'm stupid, and...goodbye, Raylan." He threw open the screen door, ignoring Raylan calling out his name, and nearly ran to his car so Raylan wouldn't see the tears pricking his eyes. With shaking hands, he turned the key in the ignition and was about to step on the gas when he saw a car turn into Raylan's driveway. He knew in his head that he should just press the accelerator, drive off, and never look back, but the sick, masochistic part of his brain just had to see who was going to get out of that car.

Boyd didn't have long to wait - the white Volvo pulled up next to the large, oak tree by the drive, and a pretty woman in her early 20s got out. Judging by her little suit jacket and short skirt, as well as the briefcase she was carrying, she was just coming home for the day. Boyd watched the little scene unfold like some sort of strange, silent movie he couldn't switch off. The door swung open and Raylan hurried out, covering up the apprehension on his face with a quick smile when he saw her. She skipped up the steps and threw her arms around his neck to give him an affectionate kiss. He placed a tentative hand on her waist and, after she withdrew, opened the screen door so she could enter the house, the two of them carrying on a conversation Boyd couldn't make out. Suddenly Raylan turned his head and shot one last look at where Boyd was parked before following the woman - his wife, Boyd corrected - inside.

The second the screen door closed for a final time, Boyd let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding and lay his head back on the headrest, taking in air in ragged little gasps. After getting his breathing moderately under control, he wiped his eyes, stepped on the gas, and sped away into the growing dark. The streets of Lexington, then Harlan, all sped by in a blur and in what seemed like no time at all, Boyd found himself parked in front of his Daddy's two story farmhouse. He now knew with perfect clarity what he had to do.

After taking a few moments to leave any lingering traces of emotional upset behind, he hopped down from the car and ambled up to the front door. As he raised his hand to knock, the door swung open, and he found himself face to face with the father he'd run two continents over to escape.

"Well, well, said Bo, coolly appraising his son. "Look what the cat dragged in. How long have you been back, then?"

"Got in this morning," Boyd replied, making his tone as detached as his father's.

"And it took you all day to come and see your Daddy? I raised you better than that, boy," Bo said, heat seeping just a little through the coolness of his voice. The violent sociopath Boyd knew all too well was slipping out from under Bo's backwoods, back-slapping persona. Boyd had to suppress sudden flashes of just exactly how his father had raised him better than that and remind himself that no one takes a belt or baseball bat to an army man, not even Bo Crowder.

"I had some business to take care of," he responded levelly, drawing himself up to his full height and placing his fingers lightly over the knife holstered against his left hip, lest Bo get a notion to resume old habits. "Now that it's concluded, I've come home. For good."

"Does this mean you're ready to step up and accept the responsibilities of being a Crowder in Harlan County?" he asked, arms crossed.

"I am," stated Boyd simply. "A man can only avoid his destiny for so long. I intend to stop running from mine."

Bo chuckled, his tone considerably warmer, but still containing its omnipresent undertone of calculation, and said, "Well, I am glad to hear you say that, son. Come inside, and I'll pour you some of my home brew. We've got a lot to talk about."

He nodded quietly, and his father clapped him on the shoulder and led him inside. Boyd could almost feel Raylan's disapproval, his image lurking at the periphery of Boyd's vision, but he shook off the feeling quickly: Raylan had his own life to lead now. He wouldn't care if Boyd threw his away or not. And after all, he thought to himself as the door to the house swung slowly shut, what exactly did he have left to lose anyway?


	4. Out of the Blue, Uninvited

**Author's Note: This scene is a re-write of the interrogation scene between Raylan and Boyd in the pilot.**

_Old friend, why are you so shy?_

_Ain't like you to hold back or hide from the light._

_I hate to turn up out of the blue, uninvited._

_But I couldn't stay away, I couldn't hide it._

* * *

><p>Boyd had learned of Raylan's return to Harlan County long before the Marshall stepped out of his battered blue Chevy, which looked suspiciously like the one he was driving when he had torn out of this very same driveway all those years ago. Boyd would not be a bit surprised if he kept buying the same make and model each time his car finally gave out; Raylan Givens was not a man who coped well with change.<p>

Though his boys had told him of the arrival of his - well, whatever the hell he and Raylan were to each other - it was still jarring to see him in the flesh after so many years. Boyd would be damned if he wasn't even more handsome than he remembered; Raylan's height seemed to sit more readily on his now well-muscled form, and he had even grown into his hat. His features, though always handsome, had become more chiseled and defined with age, and the dusting of gray at his temples only served to give him an air of authority.

Raylan flashed him a cocky grin, and Boyd was dismayed to discover that it sent a jolt straight to his gut - or lower, if he was being honest. But he wasn't a teenager anymore, he quickly reminded himself, and all these resurfacing feelings of desire and hurt were just twinges caused by the probing of an old wound. A lot had changed over the past fifteen years - he was no longer a scared kid, unsure of his place in the world, but a man who'd been to hell and back a number of times and had the scars to prove it. Just to survive, he had done many things of he didn't care to think of in the light of day, had dealt with drug dealers, thieves, murderers, and miscreants of every kind and always managed to come out ahead. One Marshall with a killer smile and a complicated past was a obstacle he was more than capable of overcoming.

Mentally preparing himself up for battle, Boyd returned Raylan's grin and swaggered down to meet him, careful to convey in his stance and manner that Raylan was engaging him on his territory.

"Why, Raylan Givens!" he remarked, opening his hands in a gesture of welcome, "I heard you were in town. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

"It's been a long time, Boyd," Raylan returned carefully, eyeing him up and down. "You're looking well. A life of crime obviously agrees with you."

"Life of crime?" Boyd asked in mock hurt and surprise, making it clear he would not be baited that easily. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean. I am a private citizen with no criminal record apart from a few misunderstandings on the subject of parking."

"You have a mighty selective memory, Boyd," Raylan returned. "You don't recall those five or six indictments for methamphetamine production and distribution that were mysteriously dismissed after your daddy had a word with select courthouse employees? Or how about your narrowly-obtained acquittal on a charge of assault with a deadly weapon? I suppose those were misunderstandings as well."

"Of course," Boyd returned breezily. "Forgive me, Raylan, those had slipped my mind, that's how inconsequential they were to me."

"So this is how we're going to play it, Boyd?" Raylan asked, his voice hardening, "All 'aw, shucks' ignorance and transparent excuses?"

Their exchange was interrupted by the sound of tires on gravel. Boyd and Raylan both turned to find Marshall Tim Gutterson pulling into the driveway. He got out of his car and, prompted by their confused looks, explained somewhat sheepishly , "Art thought you might need some back-up on this one. He didn't tell me why."

Raylan's face darkened as he pondered this, but he recovered quickly. "Marshall Tim Gutterson, Boyd Crowder. I was just getting around to asking Boyd if he could dig in his apparently defective memory to recover any knowledge of firing a bazooka into a church a few days back."

"Now why would I do such a thing? As a man of God, I have no quarrel with churches," Boyd replied, still feigning distress.

"Oh, I don't know," Raylan answered, "maybe because I hear you've been preaching white supremacy these days to anyone who'll listen."

"Ain't no law against having opinions, Raylan," Boyd countered. "And that particular opinion isn't hard to come by in Harlan County, even these days."

"Or maybe it was because the church was dealing dope," Raylan continued, moving closer, "and some other low-life decided that with your background with explosives and supposedly racist proclivities, you would be just the man for the job of wiping out his competition."

"Now that would be mighty hard to prove, wouldn't you think so, Marshall Gutterson?" Boyd asked, turning to Tim.

Tim stared back at him stoically, replying only, "Now that doesn't sound like a denial to me, Mr. Crowder."

"Oh, well now, I'm sorry, I didn't feel that an official denial was necessary for such absurd charges," Boyd said, still smiling, "Of course I wish to state, for the record, that I would never dream of blowing up a house of God with a bazooka or any other instrument of violence, even if said house of God was defaming the name of our Lord by spreading illegal drugs through our community."

"That's mighty comforting to hear," replied Raylan, "but you'll forgive me if I don't dismiss a man with your past from my suspect list quite so easily."

"My past?" Boyd returned, his smile turning suddenly dangerous, "Why Raylan, I didn't think you were the type to judge a man solely by his past behavior. After all, who among us doesn't have a few youthful mistakes on his conscience? My, I certainly could tell Marshall Gutterson some stories about yours." He stared directly at Raylan as he finished his final statement, in case his threat was unclear.

"Tim, why don't you head on back to the station?" Raylan said, keeping his voice level, "I'm sure you don't want to hear the two of us gab about old times. I can handle the interview from here on out."

"Are you sure?" Tim asked doubtfully. "Art seemed awfully insistent on me coming to give you a hand."

"Now there is no cause for concern, Marshall," Boyd said amicably, sidling up to Raylan and draping his arm over his shoulder as he addressed Tim. "Raylan and I are old, dear friends, and I'm sure your boss just wanted to make sure he stayed on task. Rest assured that I will insist on discussing fully this unfortunate church bombing before we start any reminiscing."

After looking once again to Raylan, who gave him a small nod, Tim shrugged, returned to his car and, with a last, slightly puzzled glance at Raylan and Boyd, peeled out of the driveway down the road toward the station.

As Raylan turned back toward him, temper flashing in eyes, Boyd said pleasantly, "Now, where are my manners? Raylan, why don't you come on in for a glass of lemonade, or perhaps something a little bit stronger if you can indulge when you're on duty?"

Raylan said nothing, but followed him into the house, eyes still flashing. As soon as they crossed the threshold, Boyd found himself slammed, face first, into an oak cabinet, with Raylan's forearm pressing into his back hard enough to bruise.

Smashing the heel of his boot onto Raylan's toes, Boyd surprised him just enough to loosen his grip and allow Boyd to turn around and face him, although still trapped against the cabinet by Raylan's body. Though his breathing was hampered by Raylan's arm, which was now digging into his diaphragm, Boyd nevertheless managed a hollow laugh and said, "Well, this seems familiar. You never were much of a one for foreplay."

Raylan slammed him even harder against the cabinet, shouting, "Goddamn it, Boyd! You really think this is the time to be cute? This is my life! I am not in a place in my career where I can afford the kind of doubts your glib remarks could bring up. The marshall's service is not an organization that will be sponsoring a float in a pride parade anytime soon."

"Now isn't this ironic?" Boyd asked, his smile thin and razor-sharp, "You were so desperate to get out of this cage that it turns out you went and flew right into another one."

Raylan switched his grip to the front of Boyd's shirt, lifting him up so they were nearly eye to eye. "Quit acting like you know me, Boyd. Whatever we happened to be for a few months when we were both young and stupid has next to nothing to do with who I am now."

Now it was Boyd's turn to get angry, and he pushed Raylan back with surprising vigor, yelling, "No, Raylan, you quit acting like I'm just another scumbag you have to interview on your daily rounds saving the good people of Harlan from bad, bad men like me. You don't get to brush off what we had as nothing - it was substantial enough for you to ask me to run off and build a life with you. You can push down those parts of yourself that you would rather forget all you want, but you can't change the simple fact that we happened - we had something real. If you stopped lying to yourself for a minute, you'd see that."

They stood there in silence for a few long moments, not breaking eye contact for a second, each trying unsuccessfully to recover his breath and composure. The air crackled and burned in the small space between them, and just when Boyd was going to shove Raylan away and demand that he leave, Raylan, also apparently coming to a decision, crashed his lips down on Boyd's, tangling his hands in his hair. Boyd's first thought was to resist and shove him away anyway, but he quickly found himself responding instinctively to Raylan, like all the years and pain in between never happened and they were both still nineteen and unable to keep their hands off one another.

He slipped his arms around Raylan's torso and then under his shirt, scraping his fingers along his back like he used to do so often that Raylan couldn't play Shirts and Skins without eliciting uncomfortable questions. Raylan growled in response and moved his hands down to Boyd's back, then his ass, lifting him up and back so Boyd was half suspended between Raylan and the cabinet. Boyd, never breaking the kiss, moved one of his hands around to Raylan's chest, still keeping it beneath his shirt, which he tugged out of his waistband. When Boyd reached into Raylan's jeans, however, Raylan seemed to snap out of his hormone-fueled haze and propelled himself back with such violence that Boyd had to grab onto the cabinet to keep from falling on his ass onto the floor.

"Fuck!" Raylan yelled, half at Boyd and half at himself, "Fuck!" He then lapsed into silence and began pacing back and forth, his hand running agitatedly through his hair. Once he'd recovered from the shock, Boyd had just started wondering if he should say something when Raylan spoke again.

"You blew up a church with a grenade launcher!" He shouted, looking at Boyd as if this explained everything.

"First of all, you have no proof of that," Boyd replied, stalling as he tried to follow Raylan's logic. "Second, what the hell does that have to do with you coming in here, slamming me against a cabinet, kissing me like you wanted to extract my tonsils, then nearly dropping me on my ass when I took things to the next logical step?"

"Shit, Boyd!" Raylan returned, equally exasperated. "I didn't come here for any of that, least of all with you! I read your file. Over the past fifteen years, you've robbed banks, sold guns, helped your Daddy build the biggest meth empire this side of the Ohio, and blown up anyone who's gotten in your way. Whatever common ground we had in the past has been buried far too deep; we don't make any fucking sense anymore!"

"You really think we're that different, Raylan?" Boyd asked incredulously. "I read all about that Tommy Bucks. shooting in the newspaper. You didn't have to shoot him; there were other ways of dealing with the situation. But he tried your patience and tested your honor, so the second he fulfilled your definition of "justified," he had to die. Do you really think that after so much death, you can just wash your hands clean just by slapping a convenient label on it for your Internal Affairs department? We're two halves of the same coin, you and I. Different in our loyalties, perhaps, but damn near identical once you strip us down to the cores - Harlan men, bred on coal dust and bar fights, barely contained violence just waiting for an excuse to break free. So you do not get to waltz in here after fifteen years, flash your badge and talk down to me like I'm the sinner and you're the man without blame casting the first stone."

"No, Boyd, I get to talk to you like you're a son-of-a-bitch who blew up a church and has killed God knows how many innocent people!" Raylan yelled back at him, "And what's this on your arm, huh?" He lifted up Boyd's shirt sleeve before he could resist, uncovering the swastika tattooed on his left bicep. "Hardly the mark of a man who should be talking to me about lying to myself. I may not know much about you anymore, Boyd, but I know you're not a racist. You're spreading hate to make money, not caring who you hurt in pursuit of it. Honestly, I'm not sure if you can ever wash enough blood off your hands to come back from all that, Boyd, but I know you can't come back to me."

"All right, Raylan," Boyd said, ignoring the twinges of hurt Raylan's statement had caused him and responding in a tone that conveyed both gentility and menace, "If you want to talk to me like some sort of dangerous criminal, then I'll respond like one. Consider this your only friendly warning: it might be advisable for your personal well-being to take a pass on this investigation. No point in getting embroiled in Harlan County business when you clearly have no intention of staying here longer than you have to."

Raylan looked him dead in the eye and asked, "Are you threatening a US Marshall, Boyd? I believe that's a federal offense."

"Of course not, Raylan," Boyd replied, his face wreathed once more in that dangerous smile, "Just a little friendly advice. After all, you've been away a long time. Things change."

"I'll keep it in mind," Raylan said with a hint of sarcasm. "The Marshall service will be needing your presence at noon tomorrow."

"And what, pray tell, is the occasion?" Boyd asked.

"Lineup. Got a witness who saw a man fire a bazooka into a church," Raylan said evenly, keeping his eyes on Boyd and his fingers resting ever so lightly on his sidearm. "I suppose I'll be seeing you then, Boyd." With that he turned and walked out the front door and down the drive to his car.

After a few moments, Boyd followed him onto the porch and called after him, "Oh count on it, Raylan Givens. You count on it."

Raylan had made it abundantly clear he intended to shut the door on their previous chapters together, Boyd mused as he returned to the house, but it was equally obvious that another, far more dangerous chapter was only just beginning.


	5. Couldn't Stay Away, Couldn't Fight It

**Author's Note: This scene starts as a rewrite of the final confrontation in 1x13, "Bulletville."**

_I hate to turn up out of the blue, uninvited_

_I couldn't stay away, I couldn't fight it._

_I had hoped you'd see my face_

_And that you'd be reminded that for me it isn't over._

* * *

><p>The cabin walls splintered and groaned under each subsequent spray of bullets, and Boyd was mildly afraid that the structure's inevitable collapse would kill them before the bullets had a chance.<p>

"Just send us Raylan Givens and you can go free," the petite Hispanic woman with the automatic weapon shouted to him. "We have no quarrel with you."

Raylan looked him dead in the eye, as if telling him it was his best option, then shouted back, "I'm Raylan Givens," ducking to avoid the hail of bullets that followed his words.

"No, I'm Raylan Givens," Boyd heard himself say, thinking fast in his panicked need to stop Raylan from getting himself killed.

The look Raylan shot him was by no means friendly as he asked angrily, "What the hell do you think you're doing, Boyd?"

"Trying to stop you from getting yourself killed with that martyr complex of yours! I'm not going to let you do this alone!" Boyd yelled in return, not backing down an inch.

Their argument was interrupted by several short blasts from the machine gun and a voice shouting, "You've got five minutes to figure out who's who or I bring out the really heavy artillery."

Crouching even lower to the cabin floor, Raylan continued in a heated whisper, "Boyd, I am a US Federal Marshall; it is my job and my duty to risk my life. I can't let a civilian go into a fire fight with me."

With a meaningful glance toward their assailant, Boyd gave him a rueful smile and replied, "It's a bit late for that tactic, Raylan - I'm in it. More importantly, I am a man with ten lost souls on my conscience; I welcome the chance to do something to begin to tip the heavenly scales back again."

Raylan's tone softened a bit as he said more calmly, "Boyd, the deaths of those men do not lie on your conscience, but on Bo's. You were trying to help them; even I see that now. You couldn't have foreseen the consequences.°

"Couldn't I?" Boyd asked, the despair seeping through into his voice. "I'm a planner, Raylan, it's how I've survived in Harlan this long. I'm always two steps ahead. But I wasn't this time, and ten good men are dead. That is not something I can lay on anybody else. I owe a debt, and I intend to discharge it."

"Damn it, Boyd, you don't owe your life! What you're suggesting is too goddamn dangerous and I won't let you do it." Raylan was getting more upset than Boyd had seen him in a long time.

"You don't have much of a choice," Boyd said. "We both stay in here, we're sitting ducks, and she can just wait until nightfall to pick us off. But if one of us goes out as a decoy, the other one has got at least a chance of sneaking around back and getting a hit in. You're the better shot, which makes me the decoy. Come on, Raylan, you know I'm right; it's our only chance."

Raylan stared off stormily into the distance for a few moments saying nothing, but eventually he nodded reluctantly. He then removed his jacket and started unbuttoning his shirt, at which point Boyd was about to interject in confusion until he noticed the Kevlar vest Raylan was wearing beneath it. Then, as if guessing what Boyd was about to say, Raylan said firmly, "No objections, Boyd. You wear this or there's no deal." He slipped it from his shoulders, being careful to remain below the line of the windows, then slid it over the dusty floor to Boyd.

Seeing in Raylan's stony expression that argument was useless, Boyd removed his own outer clothing until he was wearing only his undershirt and jeans. He was about to shrug on the vest when he looked up and was startled to find Raylan only a few inches away, breathing hard and looking like he wanted to say something important. Instead, he lunged for Boyd, kissing him fiercely and possessively, hands bunching in the white cotton of Boyd's undershirt. Boyd returned the kiss just as passionately, unsure if he would ever get another chance.

Raylan broke it off after a minute, placed his hands on either sides of Boyd's face and growled out, "Boyd Crowder, don't you dare die!" He then returned swiftly to the other side of the room to reload his gun with a fresh clip.

Boyd stared after him for a few moments, thinking vaguely that if they both made it out of this alive, they would really have to discuss Raylan's hit-and-run style of kissing, then continued dressing, placing the vest under his shirt and jacket. Once he was ready, and with a curt nod from Raylan, he shouted, "Hold your fire; I'm coming out!"

As he got up to leave, Raylan looked at him and instructed, "Do not go out into the open. Do not engage. Just keep her talking until I can find a shot."

Boyd nodded, took a deep breath, and, with a last glance at Raylan, opened the door. He shouted, "I'm coming out! My gun is in my hand, and I am now placing it on the ground. You do the same, and then we can negotiate." Boyd remained hidden behind one of the wood pillars of the porch, being careful to always keep something between him and the woman's machine gun, even if it was only a comparatively flimsy wooden structural support.

"Okay, okay," she said, lowering her gun to the ground and raising her hands in the air as she walked into the open area in front of the cabin. "Now, let's talk."

Boyd tensed up; he knew she shouldn't have given in so quickly - something wasn't right. Before he could decide what to do, the world around him exploded with sound and movement.

A single bullet whizzed out from the side of the house and hit the woman in the shoulder. She screamed and fell to the ground, screaming, "Manuel!" At this, a young Hispanic man emerged from behind the large truck parked in front of the cabin, firing a hail of bullets toward the porch.

Boyd felt a weight strike his chest and vaguely registered hearing a loud crack as he fell backwards onto the porch, his head striking the boards with a sickening thud. He had this strange sensation that a little voice was trying to tell him something, as if it wanted him to remember something; he saw little flashes of Raylan, Ava, a dining room, but, really, it didn't seem particularly important.

All around him, time seemed to slow down, and he would have sworn that it took a good half a minute for the bullet leaving Raylan's chamber to hit the man called Manuel in the stomach. As Boyd watched Raylan run in slow motion toward his car, grab the radio, and yell something frantically into it, the edges of his vision grew suddenly hazy. Darkness pressed in on him from all sides, and Boyd felt himself puled down helplessly, inescapably into it.

Suddenly, he was running through the forest by the lake he and Raylan frequented as teenagers, darting lightly between pine trees, his feet barely glancing over the soft grassy floor of the forest.

"Boyd, Boyd!" a teenaged Raylan called from behind, running after him like he always did. Boyd just ran faster, not ready for the game to be over yet. It was just so beautiful there with the lake and the trees and the moonlight that he paused for a moment to admire it, and suddenly he felt Raylan slam into him from behind, propelling them both laughing down the hill. They hit the bottom with a soft thud, Raylan half on top of Boyd, half sprawled lazily on the grass.

"Come back to me," Raylan said languidly, his fingers playing absentmindedly with the hair on Boyd's chest, which had begun to ache from the landing.

Boyd laughed and kissed him, asking, "What do you mean? I"m right here."

"Come on Boyd, come back to me," Raylan whispered again. Suddenly, he was no longer young and carefree, but older and worried-looking, bits of gray dusting his temples. Boyd frowned and reached up to touch his face, but in a flash Raylan was gone.

"Raylan? Raylan?" Boyd yelled, panic swelling in his still aching chest. He got up and spun in a circle frantically searching, haunted by a strange feeling that unless he found Raylan, something terrible would happen. As he continued to hunt for him, panic escalating into frenzy, rain began to pour down relentlessly from what Boyd would have sworn was a perfectly clear sky moments ago.

Finally, through the haze of rain, Boyd caught sight of a figure on the other side of the lake, seemingly motioning at him. "Raylan?" he called, running toward him, now thoroughly drenched, "Raylan?" As he approached, a voice began to filter through the rain, faded and patchy as if being transmitted by an old ham radio. Boyd ran faster, slipping on the mud forming around the lake, and as he got closer he began to catch a few discernible words from the hum of static: "Boyd," "Damn it," "Wake up," "Not now."

As he continued to rush forward in ever-increasing desperation, the ground became muddier and even more slippery. Suddenly, Boyd lost his footing and plunged deep into the lake. Strangely, the voice did not stop when he hit the water, but became louder and more insistent. Boyd could still see the silhouette of the man glimmering above the water, seemingly so close, yet as he kept trying to swim up to him, he could get no nearer.

The figure began to flicker and fade, and Boyd, knowing he could not hold his breath much longer, pulled together his remaining strength, closed his eyes in concentration, and impelled himself with all his might toward the surface.

As he felt himself break through a barrier, Boyd gasped desperately for air, but was stopped from inhaling too deeply by a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. Still trying frantically to breathe, he flung his eyes open and was surprised to find himself staring into Raylan's worried face. As his vision focused even more, he could see that Raylan was speaking to him, and Boyd concentrated his energies on getting his ears to work again.

His hearing returned in a whirling rush of sound, and he had to filter through the chirping birds and car alarms to hear Raylan saying urgently, "Boyd, Boyd, I need you to calm down. You're all right." As Boyd obliged and made an effort to slow down his frenzied breathing, he realized that he was essentially lying in Raylan's lap, the Marshall's arms cradling him loosely.

He tried to sit up and say something, but the intense pain exploding in his chest made him gasp audibly and fall back down. This prompted Raylan to place one hand on the side of Boyd's face, the other still supporting his torso, and speak to him firmly: "Boyd, I need you to listen to me. Stay down, and don't try to talk. You've been shot. The vest absorbed most of the force, but because your sternum and a few of your ribs were already weakened from, well, from when I shot you, I think they may have shattered from the impact and sent bone splinters into your lungs, which is why you're having trouble breathing. I've phoned an ambulance, and it will be here in a few minutes. Until then, you just have to stay with me; just stay with me, and everything will be fine. You'll be just fine." His voice softened a touch as he finished, and, staring up at him, Boyd could see the relief and worry battling it out under his take-charge demeanor.

Wanting to know what had happened, but remembering how much it hurt the last time he tried to talk, Boyd inclined his head slightly toward the truck parked in front of the cabin and looked at Raylan questioningly.

"The hired guns?" Raylan asked, and Boyd nodded.

"Both dead," he said matter-of-factly. "Initially only wounded, but the one called Manuel tried to draw on me when I was trying to radio in for help and, after I shot him, the woman sat up and attempted to finish you off; needless to say, I did not take kindly to that. Let's just say Art will have a pretty big headache to deal with for the next week or so."

Boyd attempted a small laugh to lighten the mood a little, but this led to a fit of coughing that made him feel like his lungs were on fire. Raylan shifted him up gently so Boyd's head was resting in the crook of his neck and rubbed a hand up and down Boyd's back until the agonized shaking caused by his coughing fit had subsided. Boyd said nothing, but turned carefully so his weight was resting entirely on Raylan and closed his eyes, his left hand weakly gripping Raylan's lapel. Raylan kept his arms wrapped around Boyd and rested his chin on the top of his head, and they remained exactly like that until the ambulance came a few minutes later.

"Only two pills, Boyd, doctor's orders," Raylan warned as handed them over. Boyd muttered something about cruel and unusual punishment, but took the pills readily enough, chasing them with water since Raylan had refused him bourbon.

The doctor's had officially confirmed Raylan's diagnosis of a shattered sternum and ribs, as well as a mild concussion from the impact of the porch, and unofficially confirmed that without the vest, Boyd would not have had his second miraculous escape from death. They had pieced his chest back together like he was a jigsaw puzzle, removing the bits of bone that were putting pressure on his lungs, and reluctantly released him into Raylan's care, with strict instructions that he do nothing but rest for the next few days. They had also strictly forbidden Boyd the use of alcohol while he was on the pain meds.

In an attempt to deflect the attention from his battered and bandaged chest, Boyd began examining the room, strolling around it and swirling his water glass as if it did indeed contain alcohol as he spoke. "Jesus, Raylan, how have you been living here a year and not gone completely nuts staring at these paintings? They're terrible. I'll bet you anything the desk clerk did them himself."

"Next time, I'll be sure and request the room with the Picasso," Raylan remarked dryly, playing along.

"Would've taken you for a Georgia O'Keefe man myself, but anything would be an improvement," Boyd stated, finishing his water and placing it on the table by the bed. But doing even that small lap around the room had his chest throbbing from the exertion, and he was forced to rest a hand on the wall for support.

Evidently tired of pretending everything was fine, Raylan addressed him head-on. "You almost died today, Boyd," he said quietly, the slight tremor in his voice telegraphing more than his words, "You almost died because of me."

"I made the choice, Raylan," Boyd replied resolutely, "I knew the risks. What happened was on me."

In response, Raylan walked over to him slowly, laying his hands lightly over the bandages wrapped tightly around Boyd's chest. Boyd placed his own hands over Raylan's, holding them in place, the waves of warmth they were sending through his whole body more than compensating for the pain the pressure caused. At first occupying himself with tracing little circles over the backs of Raylan's hands with his thumbs, finally Boyd lifted his head slowly and looked up at him; Raylan looked back, and in that moment Boyd felt like every barrier they had each erected between them over the years had finally been stripped away.

They kissed, not as they had once, like twin waves crashing furiously together, but, with the trials of the day and the weariness of time, rather as two continents drifting slowly but inevitably toward one another, destined to form something new. Boyd sank comfortably against Raylan, his hands resting lightly, but firmly on his shoulders, while Raylan moved his arms down to wrap around Boyd's waist as tightly as he dared, as if he worried Boyd might break apart and drift away at any moment.

When they finally pulled apart a few inches, Raylan lifted a hand and skimmed it gently across Boyd's cheek, tracing the line of faded pink scar tissue, his face posed in thoughtful contemplation.

"That fight you had with the Rawlings boy," he recollected, "You were winning, so he pulled out a switchblade."

Boyd nodded, very slightly so as not to dislodge Raylan's hand. "If I remember rightly, Raylan, you also have a scar from that particular incident," he responded with a smile.

Raylan smiled back, saying, "It was hardly sporting of him to pull out a blade in the middle of a fair fight. I was merely expressing my disdain for the violation of Robert's Rules of order in a physical manner."

"Uh-huh," Boyd returned dubiously. "So, really, it had nothing to do with me at all, then?"

"You were merely the beneficiary of my rule-abiding nature," Raylan replied, still grinning good-naturedly.

Boyd responded by slowly unbuttoning the top of Raylan's shirt and resting his hand on the small gash running across his clavicle. He looked up slowly into Raylan's eyes and said, "No, I wasn't."

Raylan stopped grinning, and this time he laid his hand over Boyd's. "No, I don't suppose you were. The second I saw him coming at you with that knife, I just saw red. Next thing I know, I'm tackling a guy twice my size to the ground and wrestling a blade out of his hands."

"But not before getting slashed for your trouble," Boyd finished quietly.

"My momma had a fit when they called her at work. I can still hear her yelling at me about 'playing with knives' and 'that damn Crowder boy,'" Raylan remembered with a chuckle.

Boyd shook his head, also smiling again, and said, "I certainly wasn't the best friend she would have picked for you."

"Maybe she thought that at first," Raylan conceded, "but she grew to love you, Boyd. She just worried that you were a bad influence on me."

"She wasn't wrong," Boyd admitted.

"Maybe, but she also knew you had a good heart. So when your Daddy would come over late at night, drunk and looking for someone to beat on, she never let him past the deadbolt. Even threatened him with a shotgun once or twice," Raylan remembered proudly.

"I was always grateful to her for that," Boyd said, meaning it. "Not too many people would've stuck their neck out for me against my Daddy, but she never hesitated."

"I think it was because she knew you would've done anything for me," Raylan admitted. "Remember that March sophomore year when I was so mad at you for asking Susie Baker to homecoming before I could? She told me that we both knew you would've have jumped in front of a train for me, and that friends like that were worth holding onto." He placed a hand once more on Boyd's bruised and battered chest and finished quietly, "Clearly she was right."

Boyd smiled a little at that and Raylan kissed him softly on the mouth, his hand still resting on Boyd's chest. Boyd returned the kiss, simultaneously unbuttoning the rest of Raylan's shirt in a slow fashion, for once in no hurry at all. As he stripped it gently from Raylan's shoulders, his gaze rested on the various scars that dotted Raylan's chest, some known to him, others new.

Boyd traced his hand slowly over each of them, all the while deep in thought. When he finally looked up at Raylan, he said with a sigh, "A lot of years have gone by since then, Raylan. Life's beaten us both black and blue many times, not to mention the pain that we've caused each other. What makes you so sure we can put all the pieces back together again?"

Raylan looked up at him calmly and said, "When I came back to Harlan, I wouldn't have dreamt in a thousand years that we could find our way back to each other. But you were right in what you said to me that first day - do you remember? That we were more alike than I ever wanted to admit. I have done a lot of terrible things in my life, Boyd, however justified. So have you. We both have blood on our hands, and we'll both have to live with the consequences. But that makes you the only person in my life I don't hold back a piece of myself with. I know that you'll always understand because, underneath it all, we're the same."

"You've seen me be mean and violent and scared and selfish," he continued, talking more in one stretch than Boyd usually got out of him in a matter of days. "I'm not an easy man to get to know, even harder to love so I'm told. I'm not a fan of talking, talking about feelings even less. I've shot and killed thirty-six men, and I've stopped feeling much of anything when I pull a trigger. I'm not used to looking much past tomorrow, which is probably why I've been living in this motel room for the past year. But you see all of that - you're the only one who ever has - and you're still here, standing with me."

"And me, Raylan?" Boyd asked, his expression vulnerable. "I remember that day you came back as well as you do. You came riding back into town on your white horse -"

"Chevy," Raylan corrected. "You know how I feel about horses."

"Chevy," Boyd conceded with a roll of the eyes, "and looked at me like you couldn't believe someone like me had ever mattered to you. What's changed? Why are you still here standing with me?" Boyd wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer, but he knew he needed to.

"You've always seen me, Boyd," Raylan said slowly, as if trying to figure out how to phrase it, "But I haven't always seen you. I look at you today, and I see what I should have all along - a good man who made some bad decisions when life punched him in the gut. I thought before that your sudden religious conversion was some sort of ploy, but I realize now that it wasn't. It really was you trying to change and make amends."

"Doesn't matter anymore," Boyd said with a bitter sigh, walking a few feet to stare forlornly out the window, "It's all turned to ashes now. I tried to bring light to people, Raylan, but I only brought pain. What do I have to show for my crusade? My boys hung from trees like animals, Daddy shot dead in front of me, and the meth's showing no sign of slowing down."

"Hey, hey, you tried to do some good for Harlan to balance out the bad," Raylan said gently, coming up behind him and placing his hands on Boyd's waist, prompting Boyd to lean back to rest against him. "I may have not always understood your methods, Boyd, but for the first time I understand that whatever you have done, you have done according to your own code of honor. I respect that."

Boyd whirled around to face him, and, throwing his arms around his neck, asked quizzically, "So you really think we have a chance, Raylan? A convicted felon and a Marshall, in Harlan County? Come on, what kind of tomorrow could we have?"

"Well," replied Raylan, a sly grin creeping onto his face, "I was thinking that tomorrow we could go up to the lake and fool around like we used to do before life got so complicated."

"Don't you have to work tomorrow, Mr. US Marshall?" Boyd asked facetiously, lifting Raylan's hat off the table and placing it jauntily on his head.

"Boyd, I haven't had a day off work that wasn't the direct result of a bullet wound - mine or otherwise - in fifteen years. I think it's about time I played a little hooky." Raylan suddenly lifted Boyd up, causing him to laugh out loud in surprise, and tumbled them both playfully down onto the bed, taking care not to bruise Boyd's ribs any further.

As they lay facing each other on the cheap, scratchy comforter, Raylan grinned happily at Boyd and gently ran his hand through Boyd's hair. When he finally spoke, however, his face had grown more serious, though his hand was still absent-mindedly stroking Boyd's hair: "I know we've got a lot of strikes against us going in, Boyd - our pasts, our families, our jobs, our Harlan stubbornness. But at this point, there are gonna be a hell of a lot more strikes going with anyone else. We've known each other for twenty years and saved each other's asses more times than I care to recall. And yes, you may have not always been on my side of the law, but at the end of the day, you've always been on my side, and there's no one I'd sooner pick to have my back in a fight. Face it, Boyd, we're the best shot either of us is going to get for a "happily ever after."

"So yeah, tomorrow may be a bit uncertain, but it also has the potential to be one of the best damn days I've had in a very long time. So I suggest, for both our sakes, we take it one day at a time and just see what happens. Now, how does that sound?"

Boyd stared at him for a few beats, marvelling at how much a little bullet wound could get the Marshall top open up, and, as his response, shot Raylan a silly grin, which he reasoned he could blame on the pain pills if necessary, and kissed him firmly on the lips. He then laid his head contentedly on Raylan's chest and said, "I think I can live with that."

It wasn't until that moment, after they had finally talked away all the ghosts that had been haunting them all these years, that Boyd realized how bone-tired he was. He barely registered Raylan pulling the covers over both of them, turning out the light, and drawing him in tightly before he fell into the first real sleep he'd had in months.

That night, Boyd dreamt once more of the lake; this time, however, the stormy sky was gone, replaced with a sunset that bounced a pinkish orange light off the water, and whenever he reached for Raylan, he always found him.


End file.
